Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. “There is my aunt,” she said. It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. ‘You see now how dangerous it is to play this lone hand. “Diedermayer’s a kiss-ass. It did so well that they sold it in the nineties. It was perfectly legitimate. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II.
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